It was a beautiful timber-framed manor house, on a motte within a protective moat, elegant and well furnished, with a separate great hall built within the outer bailey. It boasted gardens and orchards and fish ponds, lying in a broad basin in the hills, sheltered by a steep wooded ridge to the east, and she and her father had spent several wonderful weeks as the family’s guests. She had sat with Margaret, the Lady of Glyndŵr, and two of her daughters, Catherine and Alys, talking and sewing and laughing, and she had sung to them accompanied by her own little harp and, to ensure the sun stayed shining, she had taught them one or two of her weather spells. She told them how to keep the sun steadfast in the sky, and how to make it rain and how to summon the mist down from the mountains. They had spent hours reciting her spells, flicking water drops at each other and fanning the roiling steam from water heated over the fire with special incantations and carefully chosen herbs to draw in the fog, giggling as they reached for their spindles or sewed by the fire, putting the formulae to the test. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Either way it had been one of the happiest times of her life, her first experience of a loving close family. Their own house, Sleeper’s Castle, much as she loved it, had seemed poor and rough by comparison.
That summer had been full of happiness, a happiness that for the Glyndŵrs had now been broken by the massive injustice done to Lord Owain by the Lord of Ruthin, the same Lord of Ruthin in whose castle she now slept. And she had brought them here. Her impetuous liking for the man’s wife and her insistence on the chance to display her talents to a new audience had overridden her father’s loyalty to his greatest and most devoted patron. The realisation made her feel like a traitor. She turned over in bed and closed her eyes.
She remembered Lord Owain as tall and handsome, a strong man of middle years with enormous charm who had taken her hand and smiled at her and listened to her when, overcome with shyness, she had stammered one of her own poems to him before the entire household in his hall one evening. They had cheered and whistled when she had finished and he had given her a plaited silver ring as a present. She had worn it ever since. She raised her hand up from beneath the covers to look at it now and felt another twinge of guilt. It was easy to understand why her father had not wanted to come here.
But on the other hand this was their livelihood. They could not afford to turn down invitations to perform for their rich patrons and she had liked Lady Grey so much. Like Margaret Glyndŵr she was kind and motherly and warm towards the lonely girl. With a groan she turned over again and punched her pillow.
Beside her Mary, one of Lady Grey’s personal maids, stirred and opened her eyes. She looked towards the window and seeing the wash of blue sky outside sat up, dragging the covers off the other two girls. ‘Catrin, Anne, wake up. It is morning. We must get dressed.’
Washing in ice-cold water carried up the winding staircase by a scullery maid, the three young women dressed amid much giggling, then the girls led the way to the solar on the first floor of the tower where their breakfast was laid out on a table. Lady Grey was there already. Her face was white and strained, her eyes puffy with lack of sleep.
‘I’m sorry, Catrin, but you have to leave as soon as you’ve eaten.’ She groped on the table for a small pouch and pressed it into Catrin’s hands. ‘A small recompense for your kindness in coming so far. I realise it was out of your way.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘God bless you, child.’ Without another word she turned and left the room.
Her maids looked at each other in dismay. ‘What’s happened?’ Mary, the younger, asked out loud. ‘Is something wrong?’
Catrin stared from Mary to her companion, hurt and frightened. ‘Perhaps I had better leave now,’ she said uncertainly.
‘She said to break your fast,’ Anne, the eldest, said firmly. ‘At least take a morsel of bread and a mug of small ale, then we’ll go down to the hall and find your father.’
There was no sign of Dafydd in the great echoing hall, nor in the private chambers of the tower. As Catrin grew increasingly worried, Anne and Mary searched for news of him. The place was empty. A few servants scurried to and fro, replenishing the fires in the two enormous fireplaces, scrubbing the trestles before stacking them at the side against the walls, until at last Catrin heard her name called.
‘Over here. We are leaving now.’ Edmund was standing in the doorway, clearly agitated.
‘What is it? What has happened?’ She ran over to him.
‘Your father has been taken ill.’ He saw Mary approach with two serving boys who were carrying Catrin’s saddlebags and her harp, hurriedly stowed in its protective bag. ‘Leave those. I’ll take them.’ He relieved the boys of their burden.
‘What’s wrong? Where is he?’ Catrin cried.
‘He’s with the horses, ready to go.’ Edmund bowed to Mary. ‘We take our leave, mistress.’
Mary smiled at him coyly. She stepped forward and gave Catrin a hug. ‘I hope your father is better soon.’
Catrin scurried out after Edmund. The outer bailey was busy, full of men and boys, horses and dogs, and she looked round for Lord Grey but there was no sign of him. Then she saw her father, already mounted, sitting slumped on his cob near the main gate.
‘Tad, what is it? What’s wrong?’ She ran towards him, with Edmund carrying her bags behind her.
‘Be quiet!’ It was Edmund. He turned on her furiously. ‘Say nothing. We are leaving now.’ He threw her packs over the mule’s rump and tucked the harp gently into one of the panniers, then he boosted her unceremoniously onto her pony’s saddle. Beckoning her to follow, he went to the head of her father’s horse and, taking the lead rein of the mule in his other hand, he led the way out beneath the great portcullis.
Catrin felt her cheeks stinging with embarrassment at his unceremonious treatment of her, aware of men watching and grinning as she rode across the cobbles. She looked back at the steps up to the tower doorway but there was no sign of Mary there.
‘South. We have to go south,’ Dafydd commanded hoarsely. ‘To Sycharth. I need to speak to Lord Glyndŵr.’
‘That’s where we planned to go next, anyway,’ Edmund retorted, his voice terse. ‘I have already ascertained the best route. We need to go back towards Llangollen first, then south through Glyn Ceiriog, to the east of the mountains. We should be there before dark.’
Dafydd turned on him, his eyes wild. ‘You told them where we were going?’
‘I wasn’t aware it was a secret, Master Dafydd,’ Edmund was on the defensive.
‘Not even when you heard the way the English were talking about Lord Owain last night?’
‘Edmund wasn’t with us last night,’ Catrin put in sharply. ‘If you remember he slept in the stables with the horses.’
Edmund grinned. ‘Not quite as basic as that. I was given a straw mattress and a brychan above the stables with the horse boys. It was warm and we fed well. I was comfortable, at least until I was called in to see to you—’ he broke off as he saw Dafydd’s face.
‘What is it, Tad, what is wrong?’ Catrin repeated.
‘What is wrong is that this part of the world seems to be on the brink of war,’ Dafydd snapped. ‘And that was my dream!’ He gathered his reins. ‘Or at least part of it.’ He kicked the cob into a trot.
The other two followed him in silence as they headed south across the treed parkland. It was a while before they spoke again. Catrin kicked her pony alongside the men. ‘So, are you going to tell me what happened? Why did we have to leave? Lady Grey had guests coming today. I was to play for them.’ Trying to swallow her disappointment she reined in her pony. ‘Stop!’ she shouted in frustration. ‘Tell me